To Be of Use
by plumbloom
Summary: Elliot begins to ease back into the workforce after the death of his daughter. Eventually Munch/Elliot. ABANDONED. I have no idea where I thought this was heading.
1. Flurries

It was supposed to have been a routine call. Olivia felt the gravel bite into her palms as she fell from a crouch into a kneeling position beside the body. Her first thought was, _Elliot. Get him out. Out out of here._ She glanced over her shoulder, squinting tears out of her eyes. He was still talking with the man who had made the 911 call, and his brow was furrowed in – suspicion? God, she hoped not. Glancing back, she motioned at the young cop to cover up the face of the raped and murdered girl. Rising, she leaned in. The cop's face was fresh and open, with just a tinge of green, doubtless from the mutilated body between them.

"Listen," she breathed through the flurries that were beginning to fall. "Don't allow anyone else near this body except for the medical examiner. My partner and I are going to leave for now, but another detective will be here shortly. Just tell him what you told me. And hold the man who made the call, please."

The cop nodded. Olivia fumbled in her pockets for her cell phone and clumsily, only bothering to wrest one mitten off, dialed Munch's number.

"Munch."

"John, it's Olivia. Elliot and I can't take this call. Get the information from the captain and take over for us, okay? I briefed the cop here, he'll hold the body and the 911 caller, and the M.E.'ll be here shortly."

Munch paused. Olivia had counted on him not to ask questions, and after a long pause, he assented and hung up. Relieved, she jogged over to Elliot, who was still deep in conversation with the caller. She interrupted with a hand on his elbow.

"Elliot, we have to go."

He glanced up from his pad. "Another call? Don't we get holidays?"

"The captain wants us back at the precinct. Munch is going to take over for us here."

There was now a definite look of suspicion, and maybe worry, etched on Elliot's brow. "Did he say what for?"

"Just _now_. Come on."

To her relief, he followed her without another question.

Munch didn't like to curse. He thought it vulgar, lowly. One of his ex-wives had been especially fond of cursing, and he cultivated a special distaste for it throughout countless sweaty sex-filled nights, heated divorce proceedings, and various threatening post-divorce phone calls, demanding he give up her cat's water dish.

That night, however, nothing seemed to encompass the overwhelming situation as a good, gritty "Shit."

"_Shit_," he mumbled, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. "I'm going to kill you, Olivia."

He was crouched next to the inert and carefully filleted body of Kathleen Stabler. Her rapist, after having his way with her in various positions, had gagged and bound her, and then taken something very sharp (probably a straight razor, said the M.E.) and made incisions down the entire length of her body, starting at the shoulder, skirting the breast and continuing down the belly and thighs all the way to the feet. There were shallow, irregular circles carved around her nipples. Her face, on the other hand, was peaceful and untouched except for little dark marks at the corners of her mouth. The rapist had removed the gag post mortem. The medical examiner, a slight Korean girl of no more than twenty-five, looked at him curiously. "Did you know this girl?"

"Her father works in Special Victims." Replacing his glasses and hat, Munch jammed his hands into his pockets. _Shit…_

"I trusted you, Elliot."

"You can't blame him for this," Olivia protested hotly, yanking her hands out of her pockets and coming around the side of her desk. Elliot was silent, had been silent all the while, staring at something very interesting on the floor while Kathy cried and snarled and finally now hissed, in a pointed whisper,

"I trusted you."

"Elliot, this isn't your fault. She doesn't know what she's saying, she's crazy with grief…"

Cragen saw and approached the three, trying to coax the angry detective away. "It's their private matter, Olivia." Addressing Elliot and Kathy, he asked to deaf ears: "Can I get you two an interview room? Coffee? I'm sure you're still very upset…"

The office had gone deadly silent. Munch rubbed at his eyes again, refusing to look at the almost ridiculous scene that kept stopping and then staggering forward, like an old silent film.

"Shut up, you stupid bitch!" Kathy screeched, not facing Olivia. "What the _fuck_ do you know? Probably more than I do," she said, her voice quieting as she got closer to Elliot and addressed him venemously, with barely contained fury, "probably you've been fucking my husband, which is why he was too occupied to make sure our daughter was safe. First it was Maureen – now this – I can't take this anymore. I've sent the papers to my lawyer, and the children and I are leaving for my mother's in the morning. Does that make you happy, Olivia? He's all yours." Her eyes were filled with tears now, and she beat softly upon her husband's chest, half-embrace, half-attack. "I told you, I told you, Elliot, that this job would kill you. Instead it killed our daughter. Are you happy? Are you happy?" She started a soft, almost gentle keening. "Are you happy?"

Cragen's mouth was open slightly and glistened wet, helpless; Olivia turned, her hand scraping across her forehead, and then walked quickly out of the bullpen. Across the room, Fin quietly answered his desk phone; outside, the snow kept falling.

John Munch awoke slowly, an aching cold seizing his hands and feet. The TV was spouting its ghostly, silent lore across the bedroom, and he fumbled for the remote among the covers, shutting it off to return the room to silence. It was very cold – the heating system was probably broken again. He knew it would make no difference if he complained to the super, as his would be only yet another complaint in a long litany, and there was nothing the man could do about it until someone from the heating company arrived.

Swinging his feet over the side of the high bed, Munch got down and stripped slowly, only pausing to glance at the clock beside his bed: 3:30. It was, then, fortunate that he'd been woken up by the cold, as he was due down at the precinct at four. He, Olivia, and Fin were to follow a lead in the Kathleen Stabler case – a man just released from Sing Sing whose priors neatly matched the M.O. of Kathleen's attacker – and Cragen had instructed them that an early-morning arrest and search of the apartment would be best, not only in hopes of catching the perp, but also so that Elliot didn't have to sit at his desk while he knew the other detectives were out catching his daughter's rapist.

Two weeks had passed since the incident. Elliot was on desk duty, his gun locked in the captain's desk, and having regular, mandatory treatment from Dr. Huang. He'd flat-out refused any more time off than a week. Olivia was training an emergency replacement from Homicide, a Detective Laurence Kronisk. Kathy, true to her word, had taken all her children, including the body of her daughter Kathleen, and flown home to her parents, where Kathleen's funeral was held. Elliot had elected not to attend. The case of her rape and murder was being handled delicately, out of his vision and knowledge as much as possible. This was not hard, as the Special Victims Unit was always busy around the holidays with domestic disturbances and Elliot moreover had his hands full with the divorce. 

"Remember all the times," Olivia had said to Munch one afternoon as they sat on the steps of an elementary school and waited for dismissal, "he would say that we didn't know what these parents felt, because we weren't parents? How he would say, well, if it was my kid, I can't say I would have done any different. We're talking about killing people, John. Is he dangerous?"

There wasn't any need to explain who _he_ was. Olivia was loath to talk about Elliot in the first place, and Munch was surprised that she had brought it up in any capacity, especially with him. He knew she'd been to see Huang, and that she talked to the captain and Fin fairly regularly. None of them approached Elliot except in routine matters of duty; Huang had advised against it, for the time being.

Munch had cleared his throat. "You'd know that better than anyone else."

"I don't have a child. I have no idea."

"What did Fin say?"

She'd coloured a bit, as if ashamed that he knew she'd asked Fin first. "He said he'd damn well kill that rapist son-of-a-bitch, and for that matter, he'll kill Kathleen's if he gets even the slimmest justification when we pick him up."

Munch had smiled thinly, seeing the anger and helplessness in Olivia's eyes. "Looks like we're all pretty dangerous."

Now, he shook the memory off with the water from the shower and then toweled briefly. It was a nasty situation, making work even more unpleasant than usual. Munch didn't hold much faith for Elliot staying on at Special Victims. He'd always been the most volatile, the most effected by his work, excepting only Olivia in certain cases. They were awful partners, from that standpoint, but they were also excellent partners for the same reasons. They reached out and controlled the passions in one another, understanding one another far better than if one had been the loose cannon and the other indifferent. Still, he held no hope. Munch was a realist at best, and a cynic most of the time. His divorces had taught him the most important thing about life: change, and most of it disappointment. Especially for those cases where fate brought its heavy hammer, swinging.

Munch felt Elliot before he heard him – a gentle press around his bicep. Reflexively, Munch turned and brought his gun to bear until he saw Elliot's face and relaxed, but only slightly. "What are you doing here?" he mouthed.

"I just want to see him," Elliot whispered, louder than Munch would have liked. He glanced up the staircase that led to the perp's apartment, where Olivia and Fin were about to break in. "I'm unarmed. I just want to see his face." His own face was sweaty but controlled, looking like he'd run from his empty house in Queens all the way there.

Reluctantly, Munch pulled back. "Follow me. Quietly."

They ascended the staircase slowly, but when they were halfway up the winding steps the racket of the break in began with the loud crack of a broken door and then the chatter of breaking glass and muffled shouts. In that moment, Elliot fought his way past Munch and dashed up the stairs.

"Shit," Munch cursed for the third time in a month, and ran after him.

"You have the right to remain silent," Olivia bit out as she manhandled the perp, Richard Van Eyck, into handcuffs. "Fin, you alright?"

"Bastard bit my ear, but I'm fine." He was straddled over a large German Shepard, holding the dog down with difficulty as it struggled. "I think I'm going to have to knock it out."

"Just do it, it's ready to kill the both of us." Olivia stopped when she saw Elliot appear in the doorway. "Elliot, what the hell – ?"

"Elliot?" Fin looked up and the dog partially wiggled free. As Elliot began to move toward Van Eyck, Fin clubbed the dog with the butt of his gun. Elliot was yelling hoarsely as he came across the room: it was clear that he was intent on killing Van Eyck. He'd wrapped his hands around Van Eyck's throat, his face a mass of red and veins, and Munch had appeared in the doorway when Olivia said sharply:

"Let go of him."

Something in her voice perhaps caused Elliot to turn, just a little, though his hands remained where they were, working in fury.

"Let go of him, Elliot." He was staring into the barrel of her gun.

This was all he had time to register before Fin came up behind him and broke his hold, wrestling him off Van Eyck. Munch moved inside of the apartment, catching Olivia's stricken gaze as she lowered her gun. He grabbed the perp, who had fallen gasping to his knees, and hauled him out of the apartment to the waiting squad car below. Olivia followed, dragging the German Shepard, and last of all Fin, who led Elliot discreetly out of the back door. His nose was bleeding a little from the struggle with Fin, but he declined to wipe it. He had a curious glazed look in his eyes. Fin eyed him, and then put an arm around his shoulder gently, leading him. He was limp and compliant.

"Let's go back to the precinct."

Richard Van Eyck's trial went swiftly and smoothly, supplemented by the still-bloodied mutilation utensil in his apartment. Kronisk had taken on full-time with Olivia. She never spoke about that morning to anyone after the captain had interrogated her. She never spoke to Elliot at all. Elliot didn't speak to her, either. He'd lost miserably in the divorce proceedings – Casey, from her examination of the transcripts, said he simply hadn't tried. Kathy had full custody of the children; he kept the house. He was still doing desk work and complained to no one. His silence lent an eerie quality to the bullpen. Two weeks after Van Eyck had been jailed, someone had laughed, a genuine, heartfelt expression of joy. It had seemed so inappropriate that Munch had physically cringed. He actually began to enjoy going home in the evenings, where he could feel as he pleased, instead of being crushed under the weight of Elliot's misery. But mostly he felt the same way in his apartment as well: guilty. Why did he feel so damn guilty? It was none of his business. But the whole squad felt guilty. It was like having a perpetual funeral without a body. Perhaps they were mourning Elliot.

One night, Huang approached Munch as he gathered his things and wrestled on his coat. "I'd like to take you out for a drink, if you don't mind, John."

Munch liked Huang – intelligent, businesslike, perceptive. He, unlike most of the squad, didn't mind having his brain picked over. He'd gone for 'drinks' with Huang before, mostly to debate and discuss philosophy and psychology. Neither of them drank much. It was nice, the bizarre mindfucking that didn't have anything to do with a current case and wasn't banal nice-talk. Tonight, though, Munch heard something else in the psychiatrist's voice.

"Business or pleasure?"

The shorter man quirked a tiny smile. "I can't fool you, can I?"

He grunted. "Let's at least pretend you don't want anything from me."

"You read my mind."

Behind the bar, a sitcom was on the TV, but it was impossible to hear over the clinking of drinks and laughter of the patrons. Their conversation had faded to a comfortable lull, and Munch swished another small mouthful of vodka and cranberry juice over his tongue.

"How's Olivia doing?"

"I wouldn't know. She's bonding with her new partner. And she doesn't talk to me unless she's exhausted her options of Kronisk, Fin, Cragen, and you, in that order."

"You don't sound bitter," Huang offered mildly. Mildly, everything about Huang was mild, like a tepid bath. Mild. Mildew. Munch was on his way to drunk.

"I'm not. We weren't ever exactly close."

"And do you talk to Elliot?"

Munch raised his eyebrows and inspected Huang over his glasses. "You know the answer to that already, and I object to being asked a question that's obviously purposed to lead me somewhere."

"Guilty as charged." Huang laughed softly, then sobered. "John, I have something to ask of you."

"Here it comes."

"This may strike you as odd, but I hope you'll understand my reasons. I have only the interests of the squad in mind. I've discussed my proposal with Don and Elliot, and they've both agreed with me. Of course, everything will depend on your aqueiescence. This is a request, and by no means an order or a necessity."

He paused, took another sip of his drink. On the television, a man and a woman were embracing while laundry flapped on clotheslines behind them: a laundry detergent commercial. "You sound like you're about to ask me for my badge. Or castrate me. Go on."

Huang nodded. "I'd like you to consider sharing your apartment with Elliot."

This was hardly what he had expected, but his usual cynicism and the alcohol flattened his response. "Is this because that whole adopting a cat suggestion fell through? Because I'm willing to reconsider, even though I maintain that I'm not a pet person."

"This isn't for your therapeutic benefit, John, it's for Elliot's."

"Doesn't he have a family member, a friend, that he can move in with? My apartment – "

" – is adequately sized for the two of you to live comfortably. And no, from what Elliot's told me, between his job and his family he hasn't had time to cultivate many new friendships, or attend to old ones. None of his family lives close enough for him to commute. He's planning on moving out of his house anyway, but I don't think that an abrupt transition from his empty home to an empty apartment is a wise idea. He's suffering from so much guilt and depression…I'm considering putting him on medication."

Munch glanced over at him. "Are you allowed to tell me that?"

"Not really, no."

"But you hoped it would help to convince me."

"You're the best choice. Olivia is not an option, and she wouldn't be even if he wasn't angry with her. Sharing an apartment with her would be too much of a sexual situation, which would create even more tension between them and within the squad. Elliot has no connection to Fin whatsoever, and the captain would also be an inappropriate choice. Many officers who are bachelors share apartments, especially in light of recent rent hikes. I don't think this would be any different."

"I'll tell you how it would be different. You're putting me on a glorified, twenty four hour suicide watch."

"No, I don't believe Elliot would kill himself. I'm asking you to serve as his point of connectivity with the rest of the squad. Right now, he's trying to wall himself in from everyone. If he succeeds, he'll lose his job, and what passes for a life. But he's agreed to share your apartment, and that tells me that he's not unwilling to reach out. You can't imagine what he's gone through."

"Well, I'm glad you're all in agreement about turning my apartment into a psych ward. I can't imagine what he's gone through, true, but I also can't believe you're asking me this."

"I'm only asking," Huang sighed. "I'll let him know your decision tomorrow."

"No." Munch drained his glass and stood. "I'll let him know myself. This whole situation is ridiculous. Maybe you should have offered your apartment, Doc, before you cooked up this crazy scheme."

"That wouldn't be appropriate, John. He's my client and my co-worker."

"He's my co-worker, too. Think about that."

"I'm going to get lunch." Munch stretched out in his desk chair. "Do you want anything?"

Fin glanced up from the list of phone numbers on his desk, covering the phone on his shoulder with his hand. "Chinese?"

"I was thinking deli. We had Chinese three times last week."

"That's because you left the ordering to Detective Pork Fried Rice over there. I don't think the kid eats anything else. Ham and cheese, no lettuce." Fin uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yeah, I said 1992. No, a fax on that."

Munch swung his chair around. "Olivia? Deli?"

"Laur and I ordering Chinese," she called back.

He got up and went over to Elliot's desk, which was covered in photocopies of intimidating-looking graphs and pie charts. Elliot was bent over them, one hand digging into his skull. Munch tapped him on the shoulder.

"Take a break and come pick lunch up with me."

Elliot looked up absently. He had dark circles underneath his eyes. "I thought we were ordering Chinese."

"Detective Pork Fried Rice and his partner, Detective Moo Goo Gai Pan, are indeed ordering Chinese. I'm going out for something with a little less MSG." It sounded flatter when Munch said it, or perhaps it was just because he was saying it to Elliot. In any case, it didn't seem to matter, as Elliot agreed, even cracking a smile.

They drove in Munch's car to a deli, even though it probably would have been more expedient to walk. It was the second week in December, and had been freezing and snowing on and off since early November. The Christmas season pushers were delighted, and the inside of the deli evidenced that: holiday lights hanging from the ceiling, several gaudy Christmas trees, and even a miniature dancing Santa who swung his hips in a variety of grotesque ways and sang "Jingle Bell Rock" when activated. Munch quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing this isn't a kosher deli."

The paunchy man behind the counter looked up from his slicing and grinned. "Nah, you want Yoichie's. Just two blocks over." Gesturing at Elliot, he said, "You want anything? Best roast beef in the Big Apple."

"No, thank you." As they left, Elliot remarked to Munch, "I didn't know you were observant."

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid in my old age." Reflecting on how that comment would strike Elliot, he added, "Or maybe I'd rather get my sandwich from a deli where the guy wears gloves and a hair net."

Elliot started to reply, but Munch's cell phone cut him off. Slightly irritated by the snag in the lunch run and now what was probably Fin calling him to switch his order around, he fished it out of his pocket. "Munch."

"Cragen. Listen, we've got an apparent suicide I'd like you to check out."

Munch glanced over at Elliot, who was looking at him. "Ah – captain – "

"I know Stabler's with you. Let him tag along. This shouldn't be anything that would upset him." Cragen paused, then gave him the address. "You got that?"

"We're on our way."

"Oh, one more thing. Fin changed his mind, he wants turkey on rye. I told him he'd have to wait another hour, and he said it's not a problem."

Munch rolled his eyes.


	2. Sugar

The apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Roger Creeching was quiet, except for muffled sobs and the occasional _click-whirr_ of a camera. Munch approached the husband and wife gently and deferentially, a maneuver in which he was well practiced. Fin didn't exactly win first prize in the comfort and caring department.

"Mr. and Mrs. Creeching, I'm Detective John Munch, and this is Detective Elliot Stabler. We're very sorry for your loss."

Mrs. Creeching, who had been crying into her husband's shoulder, freed herself a little and wiped at her face, trying to compose herself. "I'm sorry, Detectives, I'm a mess. Please, sit down. Would – would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. It's perfectly fine. If you're able, I'd like you to tell us a little about your son."

"Scott is sixteen," Mrs. Creeching answered, with obvious difficulty, as her husband watched her with concern. "He does well in school, loves hockey, has a steady girlfriend…I don't know why he'd do something like this…"

"Has he ever been to a therapist, or taken medication? Shown any signs of depression?"

Mr. Creeching shook his head. "Just normal teenage stuff. He's never been seriously depressed, and certainly never suicidal."

Munch nodded. "And who discovered him?"

"I did," Mr. Creeching replied, grimacing. "I came home from work to have lunch with him – he's been taking a few mental health days – and found him hanging from the exercise bar in his room. I cut him down and called 911, but there wasn't any pulse." His wife started sobbing anew, and he gently hugged her.

"Thank you both." Munch rose, dug a card out of his pocket, and extended it. "If there's anything else you can think of, give us a call."

Elliot followed Munch as he made his way to the boy's bedroom, where a handful of people from CSU were combing it over. Scott's body was being examined by the M.E., whom Munch recognised from the Kathleen Stabler case. One of the CSU people noticed them and beckoned for them to come over.

"Look at this, Detectives," she said, flipping the light. There was a small, patchy stain on the rug, previously unseen and now visible only with the aid of Luminol. "Someone tried to clean up."

"Blood?"

"Semen."

Munch exchanged a glance with Elliot, and then shrugged. "He's a teenage boy, that's not very surprising."

"No, but this stain is recent. And somebody tried to clean it up. Today." She flicked the lights back on and motioned at the exercise bar. "Recently installed, and he would have had to climb up on a chair to reach it. Based on his height, if he did a chin-up on there, he'd whack his head on the ceiling. Also, in the bedside drawer." She handed him a stack of papers which appeared to be Internet printouts. 

"The art of auto-eroticism," Munch read from the title. "You, too, can experience heightened pleasure and dizzying orgasms…" He cleared his throat. "Bag this."

"The husband tried to cover it up." Elliot's voice startled him. "Accident, not suicide."

Munch shook his head, staring at the piece of rug where the stain had been. "No, something's not right."

"You're correct, Detective." The medical examiner motioned them over. Scott's body was lying facedown on the floor. "After realising there was no pulse, the father left the body how it fell when it was cut. Judging on this boy's weight, and the way the body twisted, I would say he had tied himself on the bar about here." She motioned to the far end of the bar. "The chair that he was standing on is there, over by the desk. There's no way it would have traveled so far if he had accidentally kicked it over. However, it's obvious that Scott's father did more with the body than he's telling us, so it's possible Scott was tied on the bar at any point along its length."

"Would that account for the chair lying over there?"

"Possibly. But there's one more thing that doesn't make sense. Which should have been obvious to the both of you."

Elliot cleared his throat, crouched over where the semen stain had been on the rug. "There's no way that this could have come from him. It's six feet away."

"Of course." Munch shook his head. "Why didn't that occur to me earlier…"

"Men tend to have a heightened sense of their own capacities," the M.E. said sweetly, rising. "I'll have a full report for you on the body in a couple of days."

Munch nodded and glanced around the room. Hockey posters, clothes on the floor, a computer on the desk. Normal teenage kid. It was always bizarre to find things like this happening in seemingly quiet households, and Munch had gotten used to it over the years. Suddenly, though, he was acutely aware of and sick at the prospect of staying a moment longer. He gestured at a CSU officer.

"Get the computer and any journals or other printouts you find, and see if you can lift prints from the desk and dresser." Then, to Elliot: "Let's take Mr. Creeching down to the precinct for a sit-down, and then get lunch."

Roger Creeching massaged his forehead, then looked up and smiled blankly at Olivia. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

"I know this must be difficult for you, but it's really not uncommon. No one wants to believe that their son or daughter has been the victim of such a senseless accident. But we need to get your statement, Mr. Creeching, to correctly identify the cause of death. I assure you that it's completely confidential."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Creeching roared, slamming his fist on the table so violently that Olivia flinched. Laur, who had been standing by the window, approached cautiously from behind in case the man decided to get physical. "My son wasn't a – a sicko! And I certainly did not find him naked!"

Someone knocked on the door. Olivia sighed and got up, Laur following her out of the room. At the desk, Creeching fumed, twisting one hand into another.

"He may be telling the truth," Cragen said when they had shut the door behind them. "CSU found a cleaned semen stain that doesn't look like it belongs to the boy."

"Are you saying there was someone else in the room with him?"

"Captain…" Olivia trailed off. "Not murder?"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of a sexual encounter gone awry. Ask the father about his son's close friends. I want names, numbers, and schools. I'd like to close this before crazy theories start leaking to the press."

They ate in the car at Munch's suggestion. He knew the minute they set foot back in the bullpen that Cragen would hand them enough work to last the rest of the day, and he wanted to relax. Taking his gloves off, he dialed the heat up and unwrapped his chicken salad. They ate in silence for awhile before Munch spoke, watching the passer-by on the sidewalk,

"How's the house sale going?"

If Elliot was surprised, none of it showed in his voice. "Good," he replied in a neutral tone. "I think."

Munch glanced over.

"I don't really go there much. I'm leaving it up to my real estate agent." He was looking out of the opposite window, at the cars and trucks grinding grey slush into black slush and drinking his coffee. "I know Huang talked to you last night."

Considering that those three sentences were the most he'd heard out of Elliot in weeks, Munch weighed his answer. "Oh? The good doctor isn't as saintly as he projects himself to be?"

"What?"

"I asked him to let me talk to you first."

"We haven't spoken in a couple of days. He told me beforehand that he'd be meeting with you." Still Elliot did not look at him. His fingers holding the coffee cup flexed loosely. 

"My apartment isn't – "

"I understand." Elliot sniffed, rubbed his defrosting nose with a still-gloved hand. "I've been looking at some places in Manhattan…"

" – exactly clean, but I'm willing to buy a vacuum." Munch smirked. "Oh, I see. Apartment holder seeks older man with a disturbing vocation and godawful hours to share rent and wake him up in the middle of the night?"

"More like bachelor seeks bachelor; white, straight and clean, in that order." Elliot's expression was hidden, but his voice sounded considerably lighter.

Munch sobered and started the car, pausing for a while before he continued. "I told Huang he could go Freud himself, but I guess I changed my mind."

"Why?"

Unwilling to explain, even to himself, he replied: "I need the excuse to buy a vacuum."

"Where the hell have you been?" Fin glared at his partner as Munch set down a white paper bag on the former's desk and picked up a stack of papers from his own. "I'm starving here."

"Maybe you should have stuck with Chinese," Munch said distractedly. "As a matter of fact, I think you'll be eating on the way."

Fin, who was grumpily rummaging through his bag, looked up as Cragen approached. "What are you talking about?"

"Munch, Fin. I've got a list of names here – girlfriend, close friends, hockey coach, teachers. I want you to go down to the school now, before it gets out for the day. See if you can get the kids you want to talk with to hang around for awhile."

"Seems like you could use all four of us on this," Fin observed.

"Elliot has a personal matter to attend to, so I gave Kronisk his workload for the afternoon. Olivia's dealing with the family and CSU." Cragen shrugged. "Bring a net."

"I hate grunt work," Fin hissed under his breath as teenagers elbowed their way around him, shouting, laughing, and slamming warped lockers.

"Oh? Take away the backpacks and the acne, and it sounds like the end of a long day at the precinct. Specifically that lovely cacophony of locker doors. _Headache in B flat._"

Fin nodded toward a clear spot in the horde near an open classroom door, flipping through his pad. "Didn't know you had such thin eardrums. Alright – here. The coach is staying afterwards for a practice. Two of his three good friends are on the team, so we don't have to find them. Principal is holding a meeting with most of the teachers after school. That leaves the…"

"…girlfriend. Excuse me, excuse me," Munch muttered as he slipped through the crowd and approached a chunky redhead chatting boredly with her friend. "Kristine Lonagan?"

The redhead turned and eyed him. "Yeah?"

"NYPD Detectives Munch and Tutuola. We'd like to have a word with you about Scott Creeching."

"Uh, sure." Kristine said a hurried goodbye to her friend, then turned to face them. She had a full, developed figure, but her face was as round and blank as a cheese Danish.

"He your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, he's my boyfriend. Why?"

"Listen, Kristine, I think it would be best if we spoke in private." Fin discreetly worked a wedge of turkey from between his molars with his tongue and gave Munch the evil eye.

"Why? What's this about?"

Catching the look, Munch cleared his throat to get the girl's attention. "Why don't you come with me? This is pretty important."

"He _what_?"

"I know this is hard for you, Kristine – "

"Oh, shove it." She crossed her arms and glared nastily at Munch. "That goddamn asshole promised me he'd be careful."

Taken aback and jerked out of his consoling mode, the detective shook his head. "Come again?"

"Yeah, I'm sure he did. And I hope it was worth it." Kristine swallowed hard. "I know it looks like a suicide, but it was an accident."

"How do you know?"

She smiled bitterly. "Scott told me everything. I was the only one who knew about him."

Munch was silent, waiting for her to continue.

"About him being gay. The clubs. This sick strangulation stuff. I was okay with anything Scott did before that. He said I was the only one that accepted him, so I sort of had to accept that too."

"His parents, his friends didn't know about his sexuality?"

"No way. Two years ago, a gay senior was accused of molesting someone in his theatre group. Ever since then everyone's been jumpy. A couple of guys got beat up pretty badly. Plus, his dad would totally kill him. He's been on his back about 'not taking enough interest' in girls. So, we told everyone we were going out. A couple of hot and heavy makeout sessions between classes, and everybody's happy."

"You mentioned something about clubs. Can you tell me any more about that?"

Kristine pressed her thick lips together and looked away.

"Nothing irregular from the teachers or the coach," Fin reported to Cragen, passing him a copy of Scott Creeching's records. "Good kid, good grades, average athlete. His friends say he's been a little quiet and out of touch with them recently, that's it."

Munch looked up from his desk. "According to the girlfriend, our victim's been leading a double life. Going to gay bars, Internet hookup sites and sexual instruction forums, also on the 'Net. Presumably, that's where he picked up his lovely little habit."

"You got names on those bars?"

"Two: the Bee Sting and Closeness. Both are legit operations which host teen nights, free of alcohol, regularly."

"We can't just waltz in and start questioning the regulars." Laur was reading over Munch's shoulder. "Did you contact the owners?"

"Yes, and they've arranged for the security that works on teen nights to meet with us."

Cragen sighed. "But we don't know that he attended the teen nights. He may have had a fake I.D., or even have visited bars that he didn't mention to his so-called girlfriend."

"We could talk to the bouncers, too."

"Tomorrow." The captain rose and gestured at the detectives. "For now, head home, all of you. You look zombified."

Reflexively, their gazes turned to Olivia, who was perched on the edge of Fin's desk with an intent but distracted look in her eyes. "What?" she asked defensively when Laur nudged her.

"You were zoning out again."

"Right. I didn't get any sleep last night." She forced a smile as she pushed herself off of the desk with her hands. "I guess it's goodnight for now. Laur, could you wrap up the stuff I left on my desk?"

Munch watched the two leave, but it was Fin, who appeared to be engrossed in clearing his desk, that spoke. "She's still messed up about the Van Eyck thing, huh."

Strangely, he couldn't think of anything cynical to say. "It's her partner. He won't talk to her."

"I'd do a lot worse if you ever pulled your piece on me, _partner_."

Munch grinned faintly. "Somehow I don't think a jury would be willing to look past your permanent attire when deciding who's in the right."

"A black guy against a Jew? I'll take my chances."

"You have one new message. Today at six-forty three P.M. From," the machine paused unhurriedly and then said in Munch's matter of fact voice: "Stabler."

"Munch, I know you're not home yet. I'm going out tonight with the doctor around eight. Give either one of us a call if you'd like to come." Silence. "I packed up most of the things," short breath, _click_.

Munch knew it was childish, but something in him feared the quiet in Elliot's voice, so he picked up the cordless and dialed Huang instead, told him he'd be cleaning his place, getting it ready for the move, that they should come by afterward for coffee. After he hung up he switched the TV in his bedroom on, turned it to the news, and put the volume high. The strains of a commercial for auto insurance chattered through the apartment as Munch started the vacuum he'd told Elliot he didn't have and vacuumed clean the floors that he'd already cleaned three days before. It was more to clear his head than anything else.

_This is temporary,_ he thought slowly, logically. After all, how much longer could Elliot last in Special Victims? Elliot's children were bound to keep in contact with him; Kathy wasn't so hysterical as to keep them from their father, even if she did blame him for Kathleen's death. Something was bound to give, to change. Munch cleared out the bathroom cabinet, tossing old prescriptions for sleeping aids, expired hair dye that he'd purchased on a whim and never used; clearing space for Elliot's things. While the utilities weren't always reliable – the frequently-failing heat a perfect example – it was a good apartment, sizeable, finished. He slept in the main bedroom, considerably larger than what he thought of as his guest room, even though it contained only an old twin bed and his at-home workstation; and moreover, no one except for an assortment of house plants had ever spent the night in it. Munch pushed aside the leaves of an elephant ear fern and deposited an armful of sheets and blankets on the bare mattress. He'd moved most of his clothing into the closet of the guest room, and dragged with only limited difficulty the smaller dresser from the main bedroom. The rest of his clothing, which had been in the large drawers beneath the entertainment center that housed the TV, was either crammed into the dresser or dumped in laundry baskets. Munch was aware that Elliot would protest inhabiting the larger room, so he changed the bedding to a set that his last ex-wife had left in the wake of the divorce – lush purple and green rainforest print – and moved most of the houseplants out of the guest room in an attempt to make it appear that he'd actually been sleeping there, with the main bedroom as the disused one. He had just put a new pot into the coffeemaker and was searching for creamer and sugar when the intercom buzzed.

"Sorry we're early," Huang apologised as he hung his coat in the hallway. Elliot greeted Munch without much expression and asked for the bathroom; Munch pointed the way and he left without taking off his coat. "There was a little trouble at the restaurant."

"The Almighty finally visiting his judgment on the eaters of lobster?"

He grinned faintly, following Munch into the kitchen. "No, I had the chicken. But we ran into Olivia. I think she was on a date. Things got a little tense."

Munch made a face, then crouched to rummage in the cabinets beneath the sink. "Oh?"

"Nothing was said. Elliot wanted to leave, so we did." Huang leaned on the counter. "Are you looking for the sugar? I may have used the last of it, but that was about a month ago."

"I wouldn't have noticed. Thanks for the heads up…ow," Munch rubbed the back of his head where it had connected it the bottom of the sink. "Looks like I've wasted an entire pot of coffee."

"I'll have a cup." Elliot was standing in the doorway. "If you don't mind – "

"I made it for you two."

" – and have milk."

They sat in the living room and talked, mostly about a man that SVU had busted a year before, an aggressive schizophrenic who had killed his parents and neighbors. Huang was helping to map the man's brain, and apparently the results were getting high praise from the psych community. Elliot drank his light coffee without comment as the detective and the psychiatrist edged their way into a debate.

"Are you saying schizophrenics are completely unreachable?"

Huang shrugged, swishing the ice around in his grapefruit juice. "Not all schizophrenics, of course. But some are severely crippled, mentally. I've never been able to successfully treat a serious case of schizophrenia without medication."

Munch sighed. "If you ask me, it's the seemingly sane ones who are really unreachable. You know, Doc, you see it all the time. The psycho who's brutally raped and murdered countless victims, the child pornographer who sells pictures and videos without any kind of remorse…they're people the mailman looks forward to seeing on his route. People that their bosses love, people with adoring spouses. It's the difference between a wall with a gaping hole and a wall full of termites. First one's more obvious, apparently more damaged, but it's actually easier to fix. But try getting those termites out of the seemingly whole wall without destroying it. It's impossible."

There was silence, and then Huang smiled. "I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk like this in a while, John. It's refreshing to hear a different point of view. All my colleagues at the Bureau fall over themselves to lick my boots and echo my theories."

"Ah, well, it's not so far to stoop for a boot-licking," Munch joked, then smiled back faintly. "And for all we know, you could be right."

The psychiatrist shook his head as he rose and stretched, then drank the last of his juice and headed into the kitchen to deposit the glass in the sink. "I should turn in early tonight. Don asked me to come by the precinct tomorrow."

"For the Creeching case?" Munch asked, taking Huang's cue to rise and collect the cups and dishes from the coffee table.

"He didn't mention specific names, just that I should dress casually." He twisted his mouth into a wry grin. "It'll take me the rest of the night to find a clean pair of jeans."

Munch nodded at Elliot as he wiped down the table. "You get the memo for dress-down Wednesday?"

"Hm?" Elliot had been staring absently at the carpet, and his eyes refocused unwillingly. "Yeah, the captain said sweater and jeans." 

It was odd, but Munch brushed it off as he saw Huang and Elliot to the door. The latter stopped before he went out and cast an inquisitive glance at Munch, which Huang noted and told them both he'd be downstairs, hailing a cab that Elliot was welcome to share. As he headed down the stairs, Munch said,

"You can move in anytime, whatever's best for you. I've already paid rent for this month, so you're paid for until the new year."

Elliot was motionless, awkward. "I appreciate this – "

"Save it." Munch strode down the hallway and started rummaging in a small table. "Here's the spare key, I don't think I've touched it since my last divorce. Entry code is seven zero three six two seven eight. Want me to write it down?"

"Nah, I'll remember."

Munch handed him the keyring. "Have a good night."

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence," Cragen said blandly as Olivia tossed her jacket down on her chair and came over to Fin's desk. "Late night?"

"My alarm clock's broken," she replied, a little out of breath. "What did I miss?"

"Not much. We waited to discuss today's itinerary. What we have gone over: phones don't tell us much, just a lot of calls to Scott's cover girlfriend. But CSU found a prepaid cell in his bedroom, so it's likely he used it to call whoever was in the room with him."

"M.E. wants one of us down there to go over details on the body," Fin added, hanging up the phone.

"The computer forensics team sent over stack of instant messenger conversations, all with the same person: bettudare56. Scott addresses him as Ethan, and all of the conversations are romantic. They've had several real-life encounters, all referred to in the IMs. The last one was on the morning of Scott's death: Scott says he misses Ethan, and then promises to call him."

Olivia flipped through the stack of papers on Munch's desk. "Sounds like Ethan's our guy."

"Problem: he was having the conversations with Scott from a computer at Closeness. They have a downstairs Internet café. I spoke with the manager, and he prefers that we handled this with extreme discretion."

Intrigued, Laur looked up from poking around in Fin's pencil can. "Which means…"

"Which means you'll all be staying late tonight. We're going undercover." Cragen nodded at Laur. "Elliot, Doctor Huang and you fit the profile for the average guy at Closeness, so the three of you will be spending half of the day with a specialist, prepping for tonight. Fin will pose as a security guard. The rest of us will observe from an office within the building via security cameras."

Fin shot Munch a look of surprise, but neither said anything. The captain continued.

"For now: Elliot, you'll go through the instant messages; Munch, Fin, down to the M.E.'s office; Kronisk, finish the paperwork on the Juddson case; Olivia, my office." Cragen stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed. "Alright, people."

"What's the captain putting Elliot in for? Thought he was supposed to be confined to desk work."

Munch rubbed his forehead and cut a sharp turn. "I imagine he realised that this is Kronisk's first undercover mission, and didn't want him out there alone. Besides, he has to ease Elliot back into things somehow."

The expression on Fin's face was carefully controlled displeasure. "It's too soon. He can't handle the pressure yet."

Munch strained against the urge to retort; he fought with his partner enough as it was about abstracts. He brought the car to halt and got out. As they headed up to the M.E.'s office, Fin continued, "What d'you think?"

"I think that this case is removed enough from what happened to Elliot to not affect him. I think it'll do him good to get out of the office. I think he's stronger than we think he is, and that he doesn't need to be coddled. Mostly, though, I think it's none of our business."

Fin eyed his partner. "Point taken. Something bothering you?"

"Holidays," Munch replied as they crossed the threshold and were approached by the medical examiner, who smiled at them.

"Hello, Detectives. Thank you for coming down. The body's just through here."

"Wha'd you find?" Fin craned his neck over the upper body as the M.E. pulled back the sheet covering the face.

"Cause of death was strangulation, that was obvious. But look at the line around his neck – it's blurred, almost two separate lines. And the impressions on the sides of the neck are much darker than one normally observes in suicides. They more closely resemble the marks on people who were hanged." When Munch furrowed his brow at her, she met his gaze and said quietly, "I worked with detectives in Tennessee to break into a white supremacy group that was in the habit of hanging young black men. The darker marks are caused by the violence with which the support is thrown away."

"So he didn't just slip off the chair?"

"No, he was definitely pushed. And beaten while he was hanging, I'd say." She motioned to bruises on the boy's abdomen. "Whoever hit him was about six one, six two, and strong. Sent him spinning around while he was hanging there. There aren't any marks of previous abuse, nothing to indicate he'd been sexually violated."

"Son of a bitch," Fin swore quietly. "What kind of sicko uses a kid for a literal punching bag?"

"A remorseful one?" She gestured for them to follow her around the table. "The boy was barefoot when they brought him in. See these indentations on the heels of the feet? They're nail marks. Someone cupped their hands underneath his feet and tried to stop him from strangling."

"Would that have worked?"

"If he was conscious and could balance himself, sure." The M.E. covered the body again and sighed. "Obviously, that didn't happen."


	3. Wine

"If someone approaches you for a dance, politely decline. Say you're waiting for someone. If they're still insistent, let Detective Stabler or Agent Huang know via the hookups, and they'll intervene." The specialist had been addressing Laur, but he then nodded to Elliot and Huang, reclining on a couch across the office. "The same goes for the both of you. Detective Tutuola will keep an eye on everything, make sure no one harasses any of you. Your main goal is information. Strike up a conversation. Preferably near the bar, where it'll be quieter, and also preferably with someone who's reasonably sober. The exits from the club are here and here, and that's the stairwell leading to the Internet café. It's not open at night, so that door will be locked. All of the staff will be aware of your presence, and have been appropriately instructed on how to treat you." Huang's cell phone beeped softly and he excused himself, slipping out of the room to answer it. "Fortunately, Closeness has an immaculate reputation. No reported brawls, sexual harassments, anything of the kind. They run a very clean shop."

Laur looked like he wanted to ask a question, but Huang stuck his head back into the room. "That was Captain Cragen. We've got to go."

Closeness was three flights up in a nondescript building tucked between an apartment complex and a Starbucks, where Munch had begrudgingly bought coffee for the captain, Olivia, and himself. He slumped in his chair and fiddled with the receptor on the machine which was receiving and transmitting communication between the four men outside and themselves.

"I don't understand why it was necessary to send Laur in alone," Olivia repeated to the captain, kneading the flesh of her crossed arms lightly to assuage the ache from her impromptu workout earlier that day.

"He's not alone," Cragen replied, not taking his eyes off of the security camera screens.

"You know what I mean. Partnerless."

Cragen sighed. "Olivia, unless you wanted to go undercover as a drag queen, you'd stick out there like…well…like a woman in a gay bar."

"I don't know, Captain, I think a sequin toga, maybe a faux peacock feather hat, and Detective Benson would make a very enticing Miz Understood." Munch smirked faintly, then lifted his hands palms up when she glared.

"And you're in here is because most of the men in this club are young enough to be your children," Olivia shot back, sweetly. Munch placed a hand over his heart in mock-offense.

"Huang's in," Cragen announced. "Cut the crap, both of you, and test his receiver."

"Agent Huang, it's Munch. Do you read?"

"Crystal clear, Detective. I'm heading for the bar, Kronisk's on the dance floor, Fin and Elliot are on their way in."

The inside of the club was a study in chaos contained. Crammed onto a dance floor shimmery with heat, bodies gyrated and slammed into one another, the stench of sweat and alcohol vying with the pulsing music for the position of most obnoxious assault upon the senses. Lights swept the crowd, and shouts were barely audible beneath the tidal wave of sound from the giant speakers placed at strategic points all around the dance floor. On the stage which faced the audience, four dancers in skimpy clothing offered a microcosm of the wild atmosphere in the club, alternately dancing with one another and the poles and high stools which dotted the stage. Elliot strode across the floor, trying to look as comfortable as possible. Mentally, he selected an empty spot at the far end of the bar on the left side of the room. Huang was already comfortably seated at the other bar, chatting with a pair of large, meaty looking men in leather.

The floor felt sticky underneath Elliot's sneakers as he tried to cross the dance floor as innocuously as possible. The music had started a snaky throb of a headache between his eyes. Various body parts pressed at him from all sides, making him jumpy. When he was halfway across the floor, a strong hand on his waist stopped him. Fighting back a violent response, Elliot turned, but it was only Kronisk. The younger detective winked and then resumed dancing.

"Someone want to tell George Michael that this is an information-gathering mission, not a dance party?" Elliot snapped into his hookup before freeing himself from the crowd and sitting down heavily at the bar. He motioned the bartender over to him. "I'll have a Manhattan Dry Comfort, please."

"_Mission_, Elliot," Kronisk's mocking voice hissed in his ear just as Cragen's voice started, "Elliot…"

"Bartender? Forget the Comfort, I'll have a club soda."

"…And put it in a vise, Kronisk."

"Sorry, Captain."

"Hi there."

For a moment, disoriented by the voices in his ear and the music, Elliot didn't register the tall black man who sauntered up and sat beside him. When he did, he offered a close-lipped smile. "Sorry, this music…"

"Oh, it's fine." The black guy smiled, then motioned at the bartender. "Corona with a lime wedge, please?" Tipping his head at Elliot, he extended a hand. "I'm Walt."

"Elliot."

"I haven't seen you here before, Elliot." Walt accepted the beer with one hand and fixed the hem of his tight maroon shirt with the other. His tone was gentle, just teetering on prying.

Elliot stirred out the carbonation in his soda and tried for a wan smile. "Yeah. Well. My better half didn't exactly like going out."

The other man's eyebrows jumped. "Go through a rough breakup?"

He nodded. The truth of it must have bored a hole in his calm mask, because Walt clucked concernedly and reached over to place a hand on Elliot's arm. "I'm sorry, honey. It gets better," he offered, lamely.

"Oh yeah?"

Walt sighed, sipped at his beer. "Last year my lover found out he had cancer. He said he wouldn't let me see him like that and lit out for Vegas. Twenty six years we'd been together – friends since we were in grade school, high school sweethearts, that kind of thing. Now he's back in New York, on chemo, dating some real estate agent. Things are hard all over." He leaned back and laughed a little, showing very white, crooked teeth. "Listen to me, pouring all my woes out on you. Sorry."

"Doesn't sound like it got any better."

"No? Isn't this better?" Walt gestured around them. "I come here, I watch them, they're happy, I'm happy. Life: it's abundant and so beautiful." He paused, glancing over at Elliot. "But I don't suppose you came here to spectate."

He had a purpose here, yes, and it was high time he got around to it. "Actually, I was referred here by a friend, Ethan. Haven't spotted him yet, but…"

"Ethan? Ethan _Wipley_?" Walt's expression was caught somewhere between incredulous and pleasantly scandalised. "He's a little young for you, yeah?"

"He's just a friend," Elliot repeated. "Do you know him?"

"Who doesn't?" The black man nodded up at the stage, where the dancers continued to perform. "Your – _friend_ – up there has the most gorgeous pair of hips I've seen since my ex. The management was lucky to book him. I hear he's only been staying in the city so long because he met someone." Again, his face was upturned, questing, as if he knew or suspected something particularly dirty.

Sensing an opportunity to gain more information, Elliot played along. "Yeah, I heard that too. His boyfriend, Scott."

"I don't know his name, but he looks like jailbait. Not that that would deter some of us." Walt quirked an eyebrow and scooted a little closer.

"Elliot, I could use you over here." It was Huang, in his ear, and his usually controlled voice was tinged with an edge of nervousness.

"Maybe I'll see you around a little later?" Elliot asked, rising.

Walt grinned, but looked like he had gotten the hint. "I hope so," he shot back, then softened. "Take care, Elliot."

Huang coolly edged away the drink he'd been proffered with his fingertips. It left a wet trail on the shiny bar top. "I told you, I'm waiting for someone."

"Are you shittin' me?" the beefy man who'd introduced himself as Red growled. "Look, you might be a nice piece of ass, but you're out of your mind, coming onto me one minute and then screaming rape the next. Think you're too good for me, you uppity Jap?"

"Look, I'm sorry you got the wrong idea – "

"Here's an idea," Red interrupted, getting in close so that Huang could smell his beery breath. "I'll split your fucking skull open."

"Back off," Elliot warned him as he finally extricated himself from the crowd. He glanced at the psychiatrist, whose face was blank with just a hint of ironic smile. Elliot, who knew Huang well, could tell that smile was the closest Huang's face would come to abject fear.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"He's with me, jerkoff," Elliot said, registering Laur sidling out of the crowd in his peripheral vision. In his ear mic, he could hear Cragen instructing Fin to head over, and almost out of instinct he moved closer to Huang.

Red laughed derisively. "You could do better, Jap, and that's sayin' something."

"I'm Chinese," Huang said calmly. "And not interested."

"Who gives a fuck? All of you Orientals are the same to me: tiny eyes, and tiny di – " He trailed off as Fin strode up from behind him and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"We got a problem here?"

Red glanced back at Fin, who was glaring at him slit-eyed, then to Huang and Elliot, who hadn't moved. "I was just leaving," he sneered, and oozed off into the crowd.

"I want you all to meet me outside, now," Cragen said. "Olivia and Munch will question Mr Wipley. Try not to get in any more fights on your way out."

Laur met Elliot's gaze and rolled his eyes, smiling, but the older detective stared back blankfaced.

"Why didn't you inform us that you employed a man named Ethan?" Munch asked the manager as they waited in his office for the security guards to bring him in.

"Because that's not the name he gave us," the manager explained, wringing his thin fingers together. "He goes by the Bucking Cowboy."

"That must make for interesting paychecks," Olivia commented wryly.

"We don't pay him directly. We pay his booking agent, Rosario Thorne. This is going to be terrible for business; he was one of our best dancers." There was a knock on the door, and he paused. "I'll be in my inner office. Help yourselves to some coffee."

"Thanks," Olivia said, and then raised her voice to call, "Come in."

The door creaked slowly open and a slight Asian man in heavy stage makeup poked his head inside. "Mr Renstaub?" he said, glancing with curiousity at Munch and Olivia.

"NYPD," Olivia corrected him, lifting her badge. "Why don't you come in and make yourself comfortable?"

The dancer's eyes widened, but he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. "I didn't do anything illegal."

"We're not accusing you of anything, Mr Wipley." Ethan kept looking back and forth at Munch and Olivia, and he visibly tensed whenever she addressed him. Olivia noticed this, and she rose, giving him a wan smile, and retreated to the back of the room to pour some coffee. Munch watched her for a moment and then gestured at one of the seats, leaning his body against the manager's desk so that he faced Ethan.

"Won't you sit down?"

Relaxing a little, Ethan nodded and sat. "What is this about, officer?"

"Actually, it's Detective – no, that's fine. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

Munch accepted his Styrofoam cup from Olivia and sipped at the tepid liquid inside. "We have some questions about your boyfriend, Scott Creeching."

Immediately Ethan looked nervous again. "We never did anything," he said, spreading his hands in an almost-pleading gesture. "I know the law. We were waiting until he was able to give consent."

"That's good, Mr Wipley, but that's not why we're here."

"I swear I never touched him." The dancer choked a little on his words, then looked down into his lap at his limp hands. "I loved him."

"Did his parents know about your relationship, or that you two went out together?"

"No. As far as I know, they aren't even aware that I exist."

Munch caught Olivia's gaze before he continued. "And were you aware of Scott's penchant for auto-erotic behavior?"

"What?"

"Did you know that he liked to strangle himself while he masturbated," Olivia asked flatly.

Ethan seemed physically repulsed, but reluctantly nodded. "Yes. He told me. I thought it seemed too dangerous. And it was," he added vehemently, almost as an afterthought. Again he seemed to choke and looked down.

"Mr Wipley, I'm sorry to have to ask this. Where were you on the morning of Scott's death?"

"Here. Online, talking to Scott. Then I went next door for coffee. He was supposed to call me, but he never did."

"He called someone," Olivia intervened in the conversation, coming around the side of the desk. "His phone records show that directly after your conversation he made a call to a pre-paid cell phone."

"I don't have one of those." Ethan shifted back in his chair, as if he could draw himself away from her.

"We know that someone else was in his room with him when he died. We found ejaculate on the floor." Olivia cocked her head. "Was it possible that he was cheating on you?"

"No. He wouldn't. I mean, he could have, and I wouldn't have known. But he wouldn't."

"How do you know that, Mr Wipley?"

Ethan's face crumpled, and Olivia got up heavily and walked out, slamming the door behind her. There was a tense pause, and Munch drank his coffee silently while the dancer cried. Then, wrenching:

"I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry. I just miss him."

Munch nodded. "Are you planning on attending the funeral?"

"No, of course not. His father…his father would kill me."

"Why would he kill you if he doesn't even know who you are?"

Ethan had been looking up as he spoke, pleadingly. Now he looked down and his face collapsed again as he cried. "Please – "

"Look." Munch sighed, put his coffee down, and got up. "Here's my card. Give us a call if you can think of anything pertinent." Ethan didn't take it, so Munch laid it gently on the desk and went out.

Olivia was standing on the curb outside, smoking, her mouth angry. Munch approached her, pulling on his gloves.

"You don't usually smoke." An observation, a question, an accusation.

"You don't usually pry." A command.

It was flurrying. Munch worked his pinky into the right glove and turned away, heading up the street toward home.

"We don't need to do this now, Elliot," Huang said gently as he watched, in his peripheral, another gin disappear down the detective's throat. At the other end of the bar, Fin shot him a worried look, but Huang shook his head back at him just perceptibly. Drinks had been Fin's idea, and Huang had only volunteered to go because Elliot seemed show some interest. Once at the bar, though, Elliot had proceeded to get very drunk very fast, and Fin had tactfully steered a stupidly beaming Kronisk to the other end of the bar. The young detective was a blissful, happy drunk, and he didn't seem to be giving Fin much trouble, just annoyance. Huang waved back with a wan smile as Kronisk grinned and raised a sloppy salute, then turned to face Elliot, whose face was several inches from being buried in the bar top. "Let me drive you home."

"No, this is important," he protested, slurring his speech only slightly. "All that crap we been talkin' about in the sessions…don' give a fuck about it…wanna tell you this. Lemme, lemme tell you."

He sighed. "Alright."

"I'm little, okay," Elliot said. He hadn't moved, and his sweaty face reflected dully in the dark red of the bar. He stared back at it while he spoke. "I'm little, an' my family has all these parties, only I gotta go to bed. So I lay in bed and I listen all night to them talkin' and drinkin' and laughin', and mostly they play cards and drink or watch T.V. and drink or just drink, and all the while they laugh an' laugh. I was so jealous. Sounded like they were havin' so much fun. I used to listen…at the door…in my pajamas." He stopped abruptly.

Huang waited for Elliot to continue. When he didn't, Huang, honestly puzzled, asked him quietly: "Why are you telling me this?"

"What?" Elliot's head came up a little, and he frowned deeply. "Oh. So I'm listenin', at the door, an' I swore to myself then and there that when I grew up I was gonna have fun like that, and never go to bed. Stupid kid shit. I was convinced that there was somethin' down that hall, where the light was on and all the laughin' was, that could make me happy, instead of a miserable ten-year-old." He snorted, squeezing his empty glass. "I never fuckin' got out of that room."

"Elliot – "

"I'm still in that room, a whiny little kid listenin' to everyone else live and not knowin' what the hell to do with myself. Like everyone's got some secret big party goin' on, and I hadda go to bed early and just listen. But I didn't even try. Not where I shoulda tried…not with Kath, not with my kids. Shoulda quit my job. I was a shitty husband. I was a shitty father, am a shitty father. Shitty Catholic. I don't understand. I don't understand what I did wrong. I don't get somethin'. I always turned Kath down when she wanted to go out, do somethin'. Mostly just made sure my kids stayed out of trouble – that didn't work, sure. Sold my soul to the NYPD, convinced myself I was doin' something okay, that I was a good person. Fact is, I can't connect, can't _get_ people. Just piss me off an' make me want to kill them or kill myself, 'cause I love them and they don't know…my kids…" He trailed off this time, choked up on gin and his own weeping.

Again, Huang was silent. When he spoke, he reached out and touched Elliot's forearm. "Give me your keys, Elliot."

Munch opened the door at one-thirty in the morning to find two of his colleagues, both rumpled, one on the verge of sleep or unconsciousness, one wilting under the weight of the other. He pulled out his best smirk.

"Dispose of the evidence before the investigation begins, Doctor? You're more devious than I originally thought."

"I've been taking notes on the job," Huang shot back in a rare display of counterwit. "Are you going to give me a hand or not?"

"How's a standing ovation?" Munch asked as he applauded briefly and ironically, then eased the door shut and helped an embarrassed but clearly drunken Elliot with his coat.

"It's way too late at night for puns, John," Huang said, his voice deadpan and tired. He looked down at Elliot, who was trying to balance himself with one hand as he knelt in order to untie his shoes. "I parked his car in your extra spot, in case he doesn't remember or the super doesn't complain. Keys are in his coat."

"I've got it under control," Munch replied, seeing Huang's hesitance to leave. "Go home, sweet Freudian dreams."

"Yeah, you too."

After Huang had gone, Munch glanced down at Elliot, who was swallowing and blinking, one hand braced on the wall while the other picked at his shoelaces. He'd only seen Elliot this drunk once before, after a particularly rough case involving two little girls that they'd tracked down successfully, only to find them brutalised and violated, D.O.A. placed at a half-hour before their arrival. He'd half-expected Elliot to give in to the solace of liquor sooner than later, and was surprised to find himself surprised at his colleague's current condition. He knelt and undid Elliot's shoelaces for him, the younger detective sliding down on to his buttocks against the wall and allowing Munch to take his shoes off. There was a thump and Munch glanced up, observing that Elliot had whacked his head against the wall.

"Careful, they're making those out of a puree of aardvark spittle and Styrofoam peanuts these days. Open up a hole, the carolers'll start climbing inside. And I'm fresh out of eggnog."

Elliot didn't laugh, but Munch didn't expect him to, especially not in his condition. He rose and pulled Elliot to his feet, guiding him across the living room and into the main bedroom, where he put the light on and opened the door to the bathroom: just in case.

"I got it from here, thanks," Elliot protested when Munch started to turn down the bedcovers. He was holding on to the bedpost tightly, but managed to stay upright, and his eyes were focused.

Munch nodded, padding out of the room and pulling the door closed but not shutting it behind him. He was already in his pajamas – he'd been reading an old, tattered copy of _The Power and The Glory_ when Huang knocked – and somewhat reluctantly he shut off the lights and his computer, and settled down in the guest bedroom. He lay for about an hour staring at the dark outline of the elephant ear fern against the lighter dark of the ceiling, then rose to take a few more kava and have a glass of wine. On his way back to bed, he peeked in at Elliot. The light was still on, and the detective had managed to get himself underneath the covers, but it looked like he was still wearing all of his clothes. Munch flipped the light off and shut the door, then padded back to bed, sipping at his wine. Wine in a mug at three in the morning: it was beautifully pathological, somehow.


End file.
